


Lullabies for Little Angels

by MsThunderFrost



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Family, Fluff, Flustered Aziraphale (Good Omens), Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mpreg, Nesting, Pregnant Crowley (Good Omens), Stephen King References, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: Crowley is pregnant and irritable. Aziraphale is definitelynotscared shitless (he totally is).





	Lullabies for Little Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to anyone who catches all the Stephen King references <3
> 
> This story takes place in an AU where Crowley and Aziraphale raise the Antichrist from birth.

Aziraphale’s coat was missing. 

He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened—he wasn’t like Crowley, who updated his wardrobe at least once a century (and hoarded the old clothes he no longer wore—he had a storage locker in the city filled with bins and bins of immaculately kept clothes that would never again be touched); he had a small handful of outfits that he circulated through on the regular, and a lovely, tan coat that tied the whole look together that he rarely, if ever, took off...and it was missing. 

He resolved to ask Crowley about it. But the demon has made himself scarce. He wasn’t too worried—Crowley, he’d learned, was not an overly social creature. He much preferred to keep to himself, except where Aziraphale was concerned...though in his current condition, he'd become even more of a recluse, hiding himself away in an ever-growing nest in their sitting room instead of fluttering anxiously about Aziraphale while the angel meticulously tended to his books. The angel found that he quite missed the company; even if Crowley didn't have the same appreciation for books as he did, he always had the most  _fascinating_ questions, and Aziraphale was always more than happy to share what he knew. And, not to toot his own horn, but he knew quite a bit. 

Ordinarily, he'd have no qualms about entering the nest and confronting the irritable demon directly. He'd never actually been afraid of Crowley, not really. Not even when he slithered up beside him in the Garden of Eden and flashed him that wonderfully disarming grin as he suggested that  _both_ of them may have—if you'll pardon his language—fucked up royally. But the last time he'd attempted to speak to Crowley, the bloody demon had  _hissed_ at him! And, to make matters infinitely worse, both their son—formerly known as the Antichrist—and their daughter—a wonderful child with an extremely  _active_ imagination and an unhealthy love for Stephen King (seriously, he wasn't sure  _how_ she managed to convince Crowley to name the Bentley Christine, but it was beyond unnerving)—started hissing at him, too!

Aziraphale had steered clear of the demon after that. 

* * *

Crowley was the one who'd wanted another baby. However, it would seem that five-hundred years in-between pregnancies had been just long enough for him to forget how much he absolutely  _detested_ being pregnant. 

Now that the not-Apocalypse was said and done, Heaven and Hell were off of their respective backs—at least, for the time being—and Adam was back, safe and sound, where he belonged...Crowley thought it was time. He'd even made a PowerPoint to show his angel that he meant business. His first piece of evidence? They make adorable babies! Just look at Jezebel (Aziraphale had been adamantly against the name at first, preferring something decidedly more...angelic, like Rosangela or Seraphina—Crowley countered that they could always name her Babylon and Aziraphale considered the point to be rather moot). With Crowley’s red-brown curls and Aziraphale’s big blue eyes, she was an absolute genetic masterpiece if Crowley had ever seen one.

They’d also managed to convince their son not to destroy the world, and, really, that had to count as some A+ parenting. Aziraphale was fairly confident that, at best, it could be counted as self-preservation, but he’d learned long ago not to argue with Crowley when he got an idea in his head. And they were quite proud of Adam for calling off the whole Apocalypse business. Even if they knew that, once Heaven and Hell collected their respective armies, it was almost inevitable they’d try this whole mess again...it wouldn’t involve Adam, who was now, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly normal pre-teen. Besides, now they had to worry about a fidgety fledgling angel who couldn’t sit through a television show, or a movie, or even a bloody book, without miracling things into existence that simply shouldn’t be. Last week she began starting fires. With her mind.

Crowley had flinched, but was not deterred. He was, however, growing a smidge desperate—so he decided to pull out the big guns. He had a very...detailed diagram designed to remind Aziraphale that he was—is—an utterly fantastic lay (and not self-absorbed in the least). Aziraphale had flushed bright pink, coughed until his face was almost blue, and gently reminded Crowley that they can, in fact, have sex without having a baby. They’d been doing it for centuries. At this point, Crowley had melodramatically flopped down face first on the couch and demanded to know what he’d done to make Aziraphale so adverse to the idea of having a baby with him. Aziraphale wanted to mention that he didn’t need another baby with the way Crowley was currently acting, but he had a feeling that that would go over about as well as a led zeppelin. 

Really, it wasn't that Aziraphale  _didn't_ want to have another baby. The idea of having another little Crowley running around was more than appealing to him—he'd never been too caught up in the idea of having a little one that was a carbon copy of himself; it wasn't that he thought himself unnattractive, no, rather, he considered Crowley to be one of the most beautiful creatures in the universe and the idea of having little serpents slithering about the flat just warmed his heart (until, of course, they hissed at him—then all bets were off). But pregnancy hormones made Crowley...weird. Like weirder than a demon who caught feelings for an angel weird. 

Like obeying the speed limit and cooing at small, fluffy animals weird. And crying. Can't forget the crying. He cried when he was angry, or upset, or happy, or confused, or just when he bloody felt like it. And he'd gotten Aziraphale in a right tizzy the first time because who would've thought a bloody demon could  _cry_?

He hadn't even cried when he'd thought Aziraphale was  _dead_ —just drank himself to the point where a mortal man would've dropped of alcohol poisoning—and the angel was maybe, kinda-sorta, just a little bit  _miffed_ over that. But that was a story for another time.

Needless to say, PowerPoint presentations are not only for last minute, hastily put together lectures about your senior thesis that you silently pray won't put your entire audience to sleep. Crowley was quite confident that the detailed description (if you clicked on different sections of the diagram, it redirected you to a website with several GIFs to further demonstrate his point; and to the left of the diagram, he had ten or so bullet points entirely dedicated to all the lovely things he could do with his tongue...) of his sexual prowess was what won the angel over. Aziraphale was pretty sure it was Crowley's fit that had done him in. Their couch was almost one-hundred years old, being held together by several minor miracles, and it would be such a shame if it fell to ruin because of Crowley's tantrum. They just don't make furniture like they used to, after all.

* * *

Angels and demons don't really  _feel_ cold in the same manner that humans do. But as Aziraphale sipped at his lukewarm hot chocolate, fluttering around his bookstore like a busy bee, helping customers with their purchases, he couldn't help but feel a little... _chilly_. Snow had been falling for several hours now, and there was quite a bit of accumulation outside. Even with the shop's top of the line heating system, if you lingered too close to the windows you could feel it all the way down to your bones.

And if it was causing a little shiver to chase down  _his_ spine, he could only imagine that his snake was positively  _miserable_ upstairs in the flat. 

And so, shoving aside the memory of Crowley hissing at him—because he is a  _good_ partner and  _good_ partners can look past the fact that their boyfriends are irritable snakes with (occasionally) horrific manners—he politely excused himself from his customers and made his way upstairs to the linen closet, where he grabbed as many blankets as he could carry and began the slow trek toward the sitting room. Upon arrival, he found the room unsettlingly dark, the only light coming from the telly, which was showing... _Under the Dome_. Really? That hardly seemed appropriate for little eyes...

Okay, so, as Jezebel so often liked to remind him, five hundred years old wasn't  _little_. She was, like, ten years old now. But to Aziraphale, she was, and always would be, his little girl and Crowley knew he didn't like her watching such violence. And Adam...the former Antichrist was just  _eating it up_ , happily chugging away at a can of soda (there were cans of soda  _all over_ the floor—how much had Crowley let him drink?). Aziraphale was about to comment on it, when he caught sight of a flash of tan in a sea of black leather.

"Is that...my coat?" The blankets fell out of Aziraphale's arms and hit the floor with a soft  _thump_. Crowley had performed a small miracle to make the coat large enough that the three of them could comfortably bundle inside, with Adam curled into Crowley's side and Jezebel sprawled out over both of their laps.

Crowley didn't even bother to look up. He did, however, snap his fingers, and the telly began showing the live-action version of  _Aladdin_ that had just recently come out in theatres. Jezebel frowned, "The new genie looks scary, Daddy." She snatched the soda out of Adam's hand and took a sip, "Wanna go back to watching the show."

Adam snatched his soda back, "Hey! If you want soda, go get your own."

"I would, except you drank all of it!" She countered, and the two dissolved into a fit of bickering.

"Hey.  _Hey_.  _Hey!"_ Crowley snapped, momentarily allowing his true face to shine through. Both kids' eyes went wide and they immediately fell silent. Satisfied, Crowley turned to Aziraphale and hummed, "It was warm and it smelled like you. Didn't think you'd miss it too terribly, angel."

And Aziraphale, who was still reeling from Crowley's little...display...quickly shook his head. "No, no. You keep it. I'll just, um, leave these blankets for you here. I have a few more patrons to attend to downstairs, but feel free to holler if you need anything."

As he said, he wasn't afraid of Crowley. Crowley was about as harmless as a cat—lavish him with love and affection, but only on his terms, learn where absolutely not to scratch (the stomach was a big no-no), and keep him fed and watered (and with a healthy supply of alcohol) and  _usually_ all is well. But he wasn't in such desperate need of his coat that he'd risk his neck to fish it out of the demon's nest. Crowley seemed to be taking well enough care of it, after all, and it  _was_ kind of cute, watching him bundle their little family in Aziraphale's clothes...

Okay, who was he kidding? Pregnant Crowley scared him shitless, and it was time to get the hell out of dodge before Crowley could smell the fear permeating from his pores. 


End file.
